Jet lag's a bitch

Every muscle in Samson's body ached when he returned to consciousness. He was only in his thirties, but his body was clearly not well prepared for the kind of debauchery Gray could engage in.

Aww, is the poor old corporeal body not up to the task? You really let yourself go, shithead.

Despite the demon's taunts, Samson could feel the aches fading as if, well, as if by magic. Refreshed, Samson became aware of another body sitting on the table across from where he lay on the bed. His still blurry eyes made out the blonde, shapely figure at first, and his addled mind started to greet whichever girlfriend it was. Instead, however, his eyes slowly revealed that it was not one of his loves, Mary or Beth, but the landlady he had met in St. Petersburg. Confused about how she had followed him home, it next came to his attention that he was not, in fact, at home. The facts rushed into his slightly throbbing head.

He was still in St. Petersburg. He had just fucked the Airbnb landlady. Gray was back. God, when did he get so old?

"You awake now, yes?" the landlady's question shook him out of his stupor.

"Uhh, yeah."

"Good, I leave now, back to work," she responded, leaving the room and, presumably, the apartment.

As she left, Samson noted that the well built woman was wearing a different set of panties than what he remembered Gray stripping her out of. She must have stash of clothes somewhere in the flat, he thought. Samson wondered if this was a common thing for her. Sitting up and ignoring the muted pain from his muscles, Samson wondered if this was going to be a common thing for him.

You better get your ass back in shape real quick. I'm not dealing with this whiny-ass shit all week.